


Révérence

by Makoto_Sagara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Language, M/M, OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makoto_Sagara/pseuds/Makoto_Sagara
Summary: The rain has always made it hard for Draco to sleep and therefore more reflective about the past. The years after the Final Battle are no different, but it does give him more to contemplate.





	Révérence

**Title:** Révérence   
**Author** : Makoto Sagara  
**Archive:** Usual suspects, anywhere else, please ask FIRST  
**Series:** Harry Potter  
**Category:** angst, romance  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairings:** Draco/Harry  
**Warnings:** DH-spoilers, angst, language, ooc, fluff  
**Summary:** The rain has always made it hard for Draco to sleep and therefore more reflective about the past. The years after the Final Battle are no different, but it does give him more to contemplate.  
**Disclaimers:** I don’t own Harry Potter and his friends. They belong to a list of people, including the wonderful JKR, Warner Bros, Scholastic Publishing, Raincoat Books, and others. I’m only borrowing them for entertainment purposes.

 **Author’s Notes:** It has been legitimately years since I worked on anything fanfiction related, but I fell back into reading some of my favourite stories lately and couldn’t resist picking up my figurative pen and putting it to paper again. So, here you are.

** Révérence **

The sky portended rain. Dark grey storm clouds rolled lazily across the window that reminded him strongly of the calm right before the heavy summer deluges of his childhood. From the comfort of his couch, he tracked their progress with tired eyes and a heart as burdened as those clouds. Days like this usually made him restless with the desire to _do_ something and listless with his options so limited by the environment. Pacing, napping, reading, those were all fairly high on the list of activities he’d engage in, but none of those things had happened today.

The reason for that was lying next to him on the large sofa, dark fringe of hair moving softly with the deep breathing that signified the sleep of restful exhaustion. Why he wasn’t asleep as well, he didn’t know. He could feel the somnolent pull on his muscles, the sluggish way his thoughts moved, and the deep desire to close his eyes and join the man sprawled half on him in Morpheus’s sweet embrace for a few hours.

However, now that most of the bliss of his orgasm had worn off, something didn’t feel right. It had nothing to do with his current position or even the impending bad weather. No, he felt a tingling on his skin that reminded him of the way the Dark Lord’s vicious python had stared at him with cold eyes as it hissed menacingly. He was being stared at, watched, and judged. By whom, he didn’t know. Nagini and Voldemort were long dead. His parents had decided that his “unfortunate tryst” with his lover was actually more and were cautiously attempting to be supportive of their only child.

This was closer to the looks he’d gotten walking through Diagon Alley shortly after the war had ended. Part of his probation had been tracking charms that monitored his movements and restricted his international travel. He’d also been banned from using personal glamours for the duration of said probation. At first, he’d never really left the Manor, finding solace in the grounds and the Quidditch pitch that had survived the ravages of the many Death Eaters that had taken over his ancestral home for over two years, walking with his father’s peafowl and reading a great deal of the books in the Malfoy libraries.

After a while, he’d started actually answering the many owl posts that had accumulated from friends, foes…and someone else—that someone else being the man that was currently using his hipbone as a pillow, if the truth be told. Their owls in the beginning had been terse, hostile, insulting—at least on his end—but they’d continued for well over a year before they both agreed to meeting in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade. When Draco pulled back the hood to his cloak, his unmistakable white-blond hair earning him a few gasps and grunts, he’d stood by the door to the dingy pub and waited.

He’d not been disappointed. The Chosen One stood from the bar, politely ending his conversation with Aberforth Dumbledore, who blinked slowly at Draco before beginning to wipe the wooden surface as if a notorious former Death Eater and the boy who’d tried to kill his brother hadn’t just walked through the door of his shady establishment. When that happened, the rest of the denizens went back to glowering over their mugs and whispering darkly. For all intents and purposes, Draco and Potter might as well have been the only two people in the entire bar.

“Malfoy.” After years of hearing his surname growled, yelled, cursed and spurned, it seemed almost odd that Potter would say it with nearly no inflection at all.

A few heartbeats later, Draco found his own voice and replied carefully. “Potter, why are we here?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth before he looked over at the man who’d called him out of the comfort of his family’s manor. Potter seems taller than the last time he saw him at end of the Death Eater Trials, but that was probably because he’s closer and not surrounded by a million Weasels. His hair was shorter, looking more like purposefully messy instead of ‘just stepped out of a windstorm’. His glasses were far more stylish, accenting the git’s large, gorgeous green eyes. And his clothes actually fit and were within current Wizarding trends, instead of swallowing his naturally athletic frame and making him appear more regal.

It was when Potter smiled, warm and bright and looking at Draco as if he was the only one mattered in the world, that the blond forgot to breathe.

They’d talked for hours in Aberforth Dumbledore’s bar. In fact, the old man had to politely ask them to leave so that he could close for the night. It was strange, but it felt wonderful as well. When they parted in Hogsmeade, Draco had felt lighter, calmer, like a part of him had been…healed. He hadn’t _wanted_ to say goodbye to the man who had once been his most intense rival during their years in school together. It was so bloody clichéd: end of the war and everyone just makes nice to all be friends. It was like that awful statue in the foyer of the Ministry. Yet, there’d been no contempt between them. And it wasn’t only Draco that looked as if he didn’t want to leave.

As he started to pull the hood on his cloak over his hair before moving to the nearest Apparation point, a hand on his arm stopped him. It was hot, feeling as if Potter’s body heat was trying to scorch him through his robes and shirt. Ignoring his racing heart, Draco met Potter’s deep gaze and raised a slender eyebrow in question.

“Have dinner with me.”

What began as one request for a meal became two, ten, and suddenly, they were seeing one another nearly every evening. He looked forward to seeing Potter’s new owl, a Long-Eared Owl that Harry named Louis, multiple times a day, sending his own Eagle Owl, Wolfgang, towards London just as often. His father remarked on the fact that Draco was spending so much time with the Saviour, but was made to retract any pointed comments by his mother’s cool blue eyes showing her disappointment. After that, his friendship with Harry Potter was a boon to the family, even if Draco refused to cash in on the implication with the media. By then, Draco knew Harry enough to know that any attempt to use his fame would ruin everything, and since he finally had what he wanted, he was loathe to throw it away with both hands.

Shaken from his reverie, Draco ran his fingers through his lover’s dark, messy locks. He got a soft moan of sleepy pleasure in reply before broom-calloused hands began to stroke his hips and a gentle kiss was pressed against his hipbone. “You’re thinking too much.”

“An accusation no one will ever level at you,” he replied with fondness.

“Merlin, you’re a bitch right now,” Harry said, lifting his head and staring up the length of Draco’s body with enough desire in his green eyes to awaken the previously sated lust in the blond. “Maybe I need to make you scream again.”

“You’re welcome to try, Potter.” The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Harry lunges up the couch to attempt to devour Draco through his lips. The boom of the thunder and the flash of lightning are perfect accompaniments to their lovemaking.

Hours later, completely sated and lightly dozing again, Draco lets his mind drift to their first kiss. It had stormed that day too. It was over a year after that meeting Hogsmeade, the day before Halloween, and Harry had invited him over to 12 Grimmauld Place for dinner. There was a party for the next day, but Draco had already promised to be at another friend’s house for the holiday and cancelling would only further isolate him from all of his friends from school and validate his father’s mutterings.

When he landed in Harry’s kitchen Floo, the sky lit up with lightning before thunderous rain started beating on the roof, siding and windows of the house, drowning out the ambient sounds of Muggle London, and making it seem as if he were standing in the middle of a battle. He walked through the house cautiously until he reached the second floor parlour, where he found his friend setting a _very_ intimate table.

“Oh, I thought…” The sound of his voice made Harry look up and Draco could swear his insides melted with the heat of the dark haired man’s expressive eyes. “Harry?” Instead of responding, Harry crossed the distance, grabbed him close, and kissed him as if he did this sort of thing every day.

It was only the first of many, many, many heated kisses. They’d eventually eaten dinner–three hours after he arrived. Heavy snogging, petting and mutual masturbation happened after that, but Draco had declined staying the night, despite the desire to do so. It had taken all of his self-control to leave and return to the Manor, but it was worth it to see Louis with a letter from Harry that amounted to “when can I see you again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you again.” His response had been a little more restrained, but he felt the same way as the former Gryffindor.

In fact, it took another month and a few uncomfortable conversations with friends, Weasleys, and his parents before they agreed that they were dating. However, the only real problem (aside from the constant harassment from the public when they were splashed across the media as a couple) came in the form of Lucius not approving and refusing to leave Draco alone about duty, honour, family obligations, etc. It had taken Harry exactly four months later to ask him to move into Grimmauld Place with him because of the incessant harping of the Malfoy patriarch.

It was odd though. Despite the fact that Lucius disapproved of his relationship with Harry because of his desire to carry on the family line, he never threatened to disown Draco or banned Harry from the Manor. It was as if they were in this strange grey area as a family: Draco wasn’t being asked to choose between his lover and being the Malfoy heir. It wasn’t something he’d thought possible when he’d found out that some of his older Housemates had preferred men over women and were being forced to choose by their families. He’d always assumed he would have to make that choice to keep his parents’ love.

His life had been in a sort of suspended animation until yesterday morning. His mother’s owl had arrived, letting him know that Lucius’s health was failing and as such he needed to come home right away. Harry had offered to come with him, but Draco had declined. Until he really knew what was going on, he didn’t want his boyfriend to miss training with the Wasps. Especially since the World Cup was closing in. He didn’t want to be blamed if the team didn’t make it because of Harry being distracted or absent. The death threats had just stopped.

By the time he returned last night, Harry had been home from practice for hours, showered, made dinner and had most of the house picked up. No sooner had he landed into their living room than he was assaulted by the smell of curry and the soft-hard body of his lover. There were no words spoken, for which Draco was grateful. Harry just led him to the second floor parlour for dinner and then back down to the living room. They hadn’t moved from the couch, not even ten hours later.

However, that prickly feeling that had followed him since he returned from the Manor was still prevalent. Like most days that it stormed. He wasn’t sure why that was the case, but when the sky opened to torrents, Draco’s skin crawled and his sleep suffered. No matter how many times Harry made him come, he wasn’t going to sleep until the storm clouds, both literally and figuratively, blew out. Until then, he would take the worship and adoration that his lover wanted to shower on him and return it a thousand-fold.


End file.
